Page 4 of Hateful Vows
Misha Petrov clicks his tongue. “I’d rather sample my products before making a new contract, Dobrev. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know you’re gonna be any good at it?”
“I have other offerings ready for you in the East wing, Pakhan. Irina will be thepièce de résistance. I’ll have my men pick her up this afternoon.”
My hands are crossed in front of me and I almost cut the blood flow with how hard I’m clenching them together, my jaw popping with the force of my restraint. If Irina is about to be sold to Misha Petrov, I’ll be as good as dead if I try anything now, surrounded by guards who are loyal to Petrov and my father. I’ve never been more grateful for locking her up in my flat. She barely has any security at her own place, insisting she doesn’t need it because she’s deadly enough. She wouldn’t be against goons set to deliver her to Evil.
“I won’t be here this afternoon, Dobrev. I’m a busy man. I’ll sample what you have on hand and leave. I’m set to fly to Croatia in two hours. Send her to me by the end of the month,” he says like he’s talking about a piece of furniture. My nostrils flare with anger but I keep my mouth shut.
Petrov finally gazes up at me, nothing but death in his dark blue eyes. “And who is that?”
“My son, Pakhan. A fine soldier. Deadly and vicious. I trained him myself.”
It’s the first time my father speaks of me with pride and I shouldn’t be surprised it’s about him and not me, about his talent as a “trainer”. I’m nothing but a prize and a dog. Nothing around him has value but for what it can bring him. Petrov nods, then quickly leaves the room, dismissing us as he is escorted to the East wing of the mansion, the woman in tow.
My father stands and closes the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Find Irina,moy syn, and make sure she doesn’t cause trouble. I want her on a plane to Moscow by the end of the fucking month like Pakhan said, even if you have to escort her all the way to his house yourself and hold her down while he fucks her.”
“You can’t be serious,” I retort, my anger getting the better of me. That’s my mistake.
I could avoid him but I don’t as his fist connects with my jaw, my head whipping to the side with the impact. Pain flares in my mouth and down to my neck.
“Shut your impertinent mouth. Do not question me. Go before I decide you’ve healed enough and are ready for your next training.”
As I leave my father’s house, I promise myself my latest session was my last, even if I have to kill the bastard with my bare hands.
THREE
DANTE
The air smells of nauseating frankincense and my fast-decaying father as my men and I carry his casket through the nave towards the altar of the grandiose church we’re having the service in. Light filters through the stained glass windows, illuminating scenes of Christianity I forgot long ago in hues of blue, purple and orange. One of them illustrates Jesus carrying the Cross and the symbol almost makes me snort.
When we reach the transept, we kneel to deposit the casket onto a raised platform. The open lid, as per my mother’s request, offers a sinister view. Even after the wake, I almost recoil at seeing my father’s gaunt cheeks and cakey mortuary makeup, incense barely covering the stench of rot.
“Try not to fall asleep during the sermon,sciocco,” my best friend and Consigliere Tino whispers in my ears, before taking a seat next to my mother and Lorenzo, my underboss. My lips tip up at the memory of when we were young. Tino, my twin Gio and I would often fall asleep on the pews before the very priest officiating today would wake us up by pulling on our ears until we cried. Then my little cousin Lucie was born and her wails almost made it impossible to do that.
My eyes find hers, and she gives me a subtle nod. Having people I love around me makes the whole charade bearable.
We all listen to the priest drone on and on about life and death and sins and what the fuck not. I yawn and my mother elbows me in the gut, whispering about respect and God watching.
I cough to cover the laugh bubbling in my throat. I’ve always found it hilarious how most of the men come to this lavish cathedral every Sunday and repent for their sins when not five minutes later, they easily take the lives of those we call enemies. Obviously, my mother doesn’t share my sense of humour, her face covered with large designer sunglasses even though we’re inside. I know under them, her mascara is probably running and she’d never be caught being less than perfect. With her condition, it’s rare to see her outside the four walls of her mansion anymore.
“Your men are watching, Dante.”
The admonishment is all I need to sober up. It’s not only my men and capos I’ve known since I was a kid. It’s the representatives of every European branch of the Cosa Nostra, watching and waiting to pay their respect. Ever since my father’s assassination four days ago, I’ve become Head of the Ventura Family, responsible for the London Branch of the Sicilian criminal organisation. It’s a role I never intended to have. One I never wanted. But the Ventura first-born, my twin brother, died when we were just fourteen.
In a fire at our local church, as it happened. We buried charred bones and the remnants of the bright orange Dragon Ball-Z tee-shirt he wore underneath his Sunday clothes. He would sleep with the damn thing. It was his favourite.
My mother never recovered, her heart breaking along with her mind. My father didn’t do nearly enough to find the culprits who started the fire. I never forgave him for that.
Needless to say it was the last time I stepped a foot at Sunday church. I was never particularly religious or God-fearing. Losing the best part of me at such a formative age cemented the idea that I’d rather live life to the fullest than obey man-made rules.
My attention comes back to the priest as he gestures for me to come to the pulpit to honour my father. I look over at the crowd, the sudden weight of my new position settling on my brow like a heavy crown.
My speech is short. None of the men and women in the church want to hear if I loved him; they want to know if I will avenge him. Though our relationship was strained, one thing we pride ourselves on, us Ventura, is loyalty. It’s in our family motto. The words are etched with ink on my chest.
“Lealtà, dovere, coraggio. Loyalty, duty, courage. My father lived and breathed those words for fifty-seven years. He was sometimes harsh, often inflexible, but that loyalty pulsed in his veins like it does in mine.”
That’s the understatement of the century. My father was set in his ways, merciless and short-tempered. He often chose tradition over innovation, making us clash frequently. But this speech is about respect and honour. Even if I will do everything to change us, make us better.
